


Bittersweet

by isamariposa



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Heteronormativity, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Politics, Post-Canon, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: After the infamous trial, Boris wages a long battle against Charkov to make him pay for what he's done to Valery, and discovers his own feelings along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Bittersweet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19767964) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)



> This is a work of fiction for the fictional representation of the characters in the HBO Chernobyl show, inspired by several online discussions and prompts. Special thanks to Annelia for the prompt and some USSR-picking :)
> 
> Mind the tags.
> 
> Also available on [ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8428144).

* * *

 

 

It shocks him how much it hurts. Boris has lost many people in his life: his parents, his fellow soldiers during the war, his wife immediately after the birth of their son, esteemed colleagues over the course of his long tenure in the Ministry... This past year alone, hundreds of valuable men were sent home from radiation sickness, to never return. But seeing Valery in that car, being driven away, without a sign, without one word... Boris knows he's a dying man, he's known for several months that he has not long left to live. But as the car drives away it hits him for the first time how hollow and meaningless his last days are shaping up to be. Charkov, that miserable pig. Boris is familiar enough with his modus operandi. He will never see Valery again.

"This was your fault," he tells Khomyuk, viciously, because there's no one else to blame and she happens to be standing next to him.

"My fault?" she repeats. Her voice is unsteady. Boris glances at her: she's on the verge of tears. Women and their tears! His own vision is a little blurry, but it's completely unrelated.

"Of course, your fault. You convinced him to speak up, to tell the truth. Now he's been rewarded for it. Are you happy?"

" _I_ convinced him?" she repeats, and though some of her tears spill, she lets out an ugly laugh. "Are you blind? He took one look at you and made up his mind. Nothing I ever said convinced him. This was all _you_."

Now he's crying like the old fool that he is. Boris turns away from her. What does it matter? Valery has always been naive, idealistic, like the heroes in old tales. But heroes don't belong in the real world. Boris tried to save him from being foolish, in Vienna, but it was as futile as trying to change the course of a river with a simple sandbag.

Khomyuk touches his arm.

"I don't think he'd want us to fight," she says, softly, but Boris yanks his arm away.

"Don't talk to me," he snarls, and marches back into the building before he starts crying in earnest. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop if he starts.

 

 

* * *

 

Some battles are fought behind desks, but they are still battles. First: terrestrial reconnaissance, to determine what enemies he's dealing with. He waits two months for the dust to settle before visiting Charkov's office. The System may be flawed, but Boris has been part of its intricate machinery for decades. While not as powerful as he once was, he still has enough leverage to move a few cogs in his favor. He'll fight to his last breath to spare Valery this ignominious fate (a last breath that infuriatingly seems not very far at all).

"Boris," Charkov says with a fake smile, the little weasel. They've known each other for years, but they aren't this friendly. 

"Vitya," Boris answers, even more obsequiously. Charkov's left eyebrow twitches at the familiarity, almost imperceptibly so, but Boris sees it. Pah! This man thinks himself a spy and can't even keep a straight face?

"It's good to see you. How is your health these days?"

The detached tone tells him all he needs to know: Charkov has seen his medical file by now. Good. Let him think Boris a dying man, useless.

"I feel better," he says, lying effortlessly and begging himself not to cough. "No thanks to my doctor, useless fool. Cigarettes seem to help, would you believe?"

"How peculiar. I don't recall you being a great smoker before."

"Better late than never, I suppose."

Charkov rummages in a drawer of his desk to extract a pack of cigarettes. Damn the man. This will make him cough for real. Boris forces himself to keep a smile plastered on his face as he's offered one. The acrid taste of nicotine irritates his throat at once. His eyes water, but he manages to swallow his cough.

"I see I am still being followed," he says as casually as he can manage, leaning back against the chair.

"A mere formality, I assure you."

"A tedious one. What do you think I'm going to do?"

"I don't know, Boris. Idealism is a dangerous thing, these days. One could even say infectious."

Right: no need to keep pretending what this meeting is about. Boris crushes the cigarette, almost untouched, on the ashtray. Deliberately aggressive. Charkov's left eyebrow twitches again.

"Valery Legasov. That's what you're worried about, isn't? Do you imagine I'm going to continue his little crusade?"

"He insisted you didn't know what he'd say during his brief lapse into delusion at the trial. Was he wrong?"

Brief lapse into delusion! Is that what they are calling officially? Boris feels like laughing in Charkov's face.

"I didn't know he would say it, no. But you know I knew what he spoke of. I was the one who proposed the deal. A deal he struck in good faith with you and that you've failed to honor so far."

"There was never a deal. The commission assigned to investigate Legasov's claims determined that they were unfounded, and that such a large scale refurbishment of our nation's RBMK reactors was unnecessary. That's all there is. No shady deal, no secret plot."

"Of course not, I understand you perfectly," Boris says, sarcasm dripping out of each of his words. "So if I were to break the isolation you've unfairly condemned him to, would that sit right with the lap dogs following me?"

"I have no idea what you mean. Professor Legasov lives a full life. Last I heard, he resumed his teaching position at the Institute."

"Sure he has," Boris says with a scoff. The stupid cough seems to perk up at this, and he has to stiffle it the best he can. "How unfortunate for him that Velikhov, his greatest rival, was named director during his absence."

"Was he? How unfortunate indeed. I had not heard, I'm afraid I have little say in the internal politics of the Kurchatov Institute. But I'm sure Professor Velikhov will perform adequately in his new post."

Boris leans close enough to rest his elbows on the desk, for familiarity. Charkov leans closer too, as if willing to listen, though his fake smile has not faltered.

"Haven't you punished him enough already?" Boris asks. "This man saved our nation from a disaster of unspeakable proportions. He gave his life for this."

"I assure you that Valery Legasov's contributions to the management of the clean up operation are highly regarded in the Party circles. It's unfortunate that his illness made him give an incorrect statement at the trial. I'm sure he appreciates this much-needed rest after all his efforts, considering his failing health."

"Rest. Hm." Boris lets out half a chuckle. "I worry about his health, as I'm sure you do. I'm still of a mind to visit him. Will I be stopped if I do?"

"I'm sure no one would dare to stop the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers from going where he wishes. But, Boris," Charkov adds, and leans even closer, almost conspiratorially, "I'm not sure it's wise for you to continue to be associated with Legasov in this fashion."

"What fashion? As a dying old man, visiting his equally dying old friend?"

"Among other things, yes. But I must say I was struck by how quickly you took a liking to him. The Boris I knew would think him a mere pawn, utterly unfit to make any relevant decisions. Yet every time you came back to Moscow, you seemed to think the world of him - so incredibly protective of him, like a wolf baring his teeth if anyone questioned him. I was quite taken aback. And, curiously, all the reports I received from Pripyat told me how inseparable you two became. Taking long walks to see the sunset, uncaring about the radiation. Embracing openly in public. Sharing intimate conversations. Often sleeping in the same room together. So you see, dear Boris, your affection could be easily misconstrued by idle gossipers."

At first he thinks he's misunderstanding. Charkov cannot be saying that. And yet he is, he is: clear as day. Boris swore to himself he wouldn't get angry during this meeting, but he springs to his feet, knocking over the chair in outrage.

"What are you... What are you insinuating?" he whispers, close-fisted, trembling with rage. He begins to cough violently, too agitated to hold it back.

"Calm down, Boris. I know you. I know you're incapable of such a perversion. But others are beginning to talk. It would be such a shame to bait them with this untimely visit."

"You think...? You think? You dare to think this was something, what? Lewd? Do you have any idea what it was like out there by the reactor? We risked our lives so that you could sit like this in your nice office in Moscow! I was devoted to him, yes, like every footman in Pripyat, endangering myself every day, always ready to look after my comrades, and yes, Legasov especially. We were in hell, but here on earth! Only a man behind a desk like you could think of such a disgusting explanation for bonds that are forged in the heat of battle."

"I was unaware you ceased to consider yourself a man behind a desk after last year's events. And you forget I served in the Second World War," Charkov reminds him, icily. "But no soldiers around me developed such a peculiar attachment to each other."

Boris is suffocating from the anger. And this cough! He manages a few wheezing breaths, using his handkerchief but taking care to hide the blood from Charkov.

"I have a son," he shouts. "Grandchildren! How dare you cast this vile accusation at me!"

Charkov deigns to adopt a more conciliatory expression. "I'm not accusing you of anything: with your long, honorable trajectory in the Party and your well-respected family, this kind of scandal would be unthinkable. I'm merely suggesting you exercise some caution in your associations."

Boris lets out a shaky sigh. He needs to calm down. He should not have lost his cool like this. Now Charkov knows that this is a soft spot - he will move to strike like a viper the moment he identifies a weakness. He played him like a fiddle.

"Yes, I see," Boris manages to say. "I see very well that you're suggesting I'm a lesser man." He turns around to leave. "Thank you for this valuable meeting, comrade Charkov."

"Please, Boris, I hope you aren't offended," Charkov calls out after him before he reaches the door. Boris tilts his head, but doesn't turn to face him. "I'm only looking after you, our esteemed Deputy Chairman. Listen, as a show of good faith, I will order my men to stop following you from now onwards. Please consider it an apology for this unfortunate conversation."

"I accept your apology. Good day, comrade."

Boris walks for twenty-seven blocks after he leaves that slimy office before his blood stops boiling enough to think clearly.

So _this_ is how it's going to be.

 

* * *

 

(Those _things_ Charkov was suggesting... it's unthinkable, isn't it?

They were friends, good friends. There was never anything inappropriate.

They did sleep in the same room often, that much is true. But it was because Valery worked himself to exhaustion every night, and if he happened to collapse on Boris's bed, he never had the heart to wake him. And old man bones aren't made for sleeping in armchairs, so they ended up sharing the bed. It made for interesting mornings. Sometimes Boris would wake up with his arm thrown across Valery, like he used to do when he was married, decades before. One morning Valery woke first: he was lying there, watching Boris in silence, blinking because he didn't have his glasses on. And then he flashed him a sleepy smile. This sweet memory makes his heart ache, ache like it's going to bleed out of his chest.

And Charkov thinks it was about sex?

Boris knows some men do this, men in prison, sailors, soldiers in isolation. It's always crude, debased, meant to fill animal urges. What he and Valery had was not like this. Never. It was respectful. Affectionate. It was never about sex.

Would it have changed anything, if it had been? If he'd reached for Valery that morning, if he pressed his lips to that smile?

 _Yes_ , a little voice whispers in his head, _yes it would have_.)

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Drunkardonjunkyard for discussing plot points in this chapter and the next.
> 
> I really appreciate all your comments and kudos, I'm overwhelmed!

* * *

 

 

Rehabilitating Valery is a battle far more tedious than anticipated.

Gorbachev will only do what his ministers advise, and he was never too fond of Valery to begin with, so that is a dead end. Many men in the cabinet owe favors to Boris, but few of them are strong enough to weather a battle against Charkov. Boris borrows a notebook from Petya, his youngest grandson, and he starts writing down the names of those who might be useful.

(Valery always had a small notebook in his pocket, where he scribbled down his observations. Or what Boris thought were his observations: he later found out they were poems, entirely by accident, because Valery left it open one day when he went to use the toilet. They were love poems. Who could think of love in that place of death? Boris assumed they were for Ulana and averted his eyes. He wonders what happened to that notebook. He hopes Valery burned it, so that Charkov's men never lie their filthy hands on it.)

He visits his colleagues one by one and invites them to lunch with a patience he doesn't truly have, considering his failing lungs. When he brings up his old friend in casual conversation, they all parrot the official Party version to him, that it's a pity Professor Legasov's illness affected his judgement. Like Valery is some sort of lunatic, raving nonsense every day! It takes every bit of Boris's long political career not to flip the table every time he hears this little phrase. Charkov's influence extends further than he thought: this is a battle he's lost in advance.

Every month he's asked to make a list of men who should be awarded a commendation for their service in Chernobyl. Tarakanov makes the list and Boris reviews it. Every month, he adds Valery Legasov to the end of the list, in his neat handwriting, and every month Gorbachev crosses it out. No one ever objects to this. Not even Boris, when the list is returned to him. But five months in, Tarakanov adds Legasov's name himself. Boris has no time to wonder if this means anything, because Charkov brings it up in the meeting.

"Comrade General Secretary, I notice Professor Legasov is amongst the nominees again this month."

"Yes," Gorbachev says, with some contempt. "I don't see what for. This cabinet's position has been abundantly clear regarding Legasov. Has there been any change? Is he still spreading misinformation against the State?"

Boris schools his face into a neutral expression and tries not to breathe too loudly.

"Occasionally to his students, yes," Charkov says. "But he's stopped his attempts to reach other scientists. Perhaps this welcome change deserves an acknowledgement from the Party."

"Legasov was instrumental to contain the disaster," Tarakanov says, in a calm, even tone that sounds like music to Boris's ears. "That at least should be acknowledged, no matter how small the gesture."

"Comrade Tarakanov is right, a small gesture would be appropriate," Charkov says, affable, and looks straight at Boris. "How about a watch?"

A watch! Is this supposed to be an insult? Lesser men have been awarded medals, and Valery is going to get a watch? Charkov is still observing him, so Boris remains studiously impassive.

"Yes, fine, give him a watch," Gorbachev says, and gestures dismissively to change the subject.

It doesn't matter: Boris has seemingly found an ally in the cabinet. He's so thrilled that he doesn't even dare to meet Tarakanov's gaze while they are still sitting around the table.

 

* * *

  


(Perhaps there was something a little inappropriate, once.

Khomyuk called from Moscow with bad news about her research and Valery reached for the vodka bottle the minute he hung up. Boris had to deal with Pikalov and when he returned to the hotel, Valery was unspeakably drunk. He was a funny drunk, affectionate, unlike his sober self. Boris put him to bed, ignoring his beautiful ramblings about the shape of the periodic table and unstable isotopes, whatever that was.

"I have a boron-shaped hole in my heart, you know," Valery said, in a sing-song. "Boron-shaped. Like you."

"That's enough now. Go to sleep, Valera."

"Boron, number five. Boris. Bo-ris. Number one for me."

He leaned down to cover him with the bedsheet. Valery kissed the corner of his mouth, so drunkenly and so clumsily that in the moment Boris thought nothing of it.

Now, he can't stop thinking about it.)

 

* * *

  


He's wondering what might be the safest way to arrange a meeting with Nikolai Tarakanov, but the answer comes with no effort on his part. The next Sunday morning, Petya comes to his room to tell him there's a car outside. Boris thinks it must be Charkov, but when he looks out the window he finds Tarakanov sitting at the wheel of an old green Zhiguli with the window rolled down. Boris gets in without a word.

It's a rather long drive, on forgotten little roads north of Moscow, in the direction of nowhere. Tarakanov often looks in the rearview mirror, but no one is following them. He has the radio on, blaring with classical music as if to discourage any conversation. They reach a village Boris had no idea existed when the car clock hits 10 in the morning. They've not said a word to each other until then. Tarakanov kills the engine outside of what must have been a church decades before, until it was decommissioned. The vitrals seem intact from the outside, but when they get out of the car Boris sees it has been abandoned for decades. The roof is gaping above the altar, and some snow has fallen inside the building. No candles are lit inside. The icons on the walls are peeled off, falling apart. It reminds Boris of Chernobyl. He should not feel this comfortable among ruins.

"Thank you for coming," Tarakanov says as he sits on one of the old benches.

"Did you grow up here?" Boris asks, sitting next to him and staring at the empty building. It's cold out here. He should have brought better gloves. He coughs discreetly.

"Yes," he says. "We used to play inside this church, it was already abandoned then. I was given a dacha in this town for this reason. But even if they guess where I went today, it should give us a few moments to talk."

 _They_. Boris hums in understanding. _They_ must be the reason they're avoiding the dacha as well. Tarakanov turns towards him, and there's an unsettling hint of pity in his eyes when he meets his gaze.

"Boris," he says touching his shoulder. "I saw him."

Boris feels his heart stop for an excruciating second and then come back to life with a wild rhythm.

"What," he manages to say, not even a sentence, barely even a word.

"I ran into Legasov at the hospital when I had to go last week."

"Is he," Boris half-asks, still unable to speak.

"He's... not well. He's worse than me. But he's taking it in stride, he was the bravest of us all, you know. He tried to avoid me, but I went after him. I talked to him. The next morning, I had people following me to work."

It's too much information to process all at once. Boris is aware that Valery still exists, somewhere in Moscow, somewhere closed and forbidden to him, but he hasn't dared to consider the possibility that he could force a chance meeting. Certainly not after Charkov's threats, and the sudden surveillance on Tarakanov only stresses how far he can reach with his ill-gotten tentacles of power. And yet the first feeling that surges in him after the initial shock is an envy so intense that he fears he might be ill. Why did it have to be Tarakanov to run into him? Why couldn't it have been Boris? This moment should have been his, Valery is _his_ , the violence of this thought shocks him all anew.

"What did he say," he asks, flatly.

"He asked after you. That was the first thing to come out of his mouth, he didn't want to talk about himself. He sends his love."

His love. What kind of love depends entirely on the context, of course, but Boris shudders the moment he hears it, knowing at once. Love. _Love_. Valery loved him. He _loved_ Valery. Charkov's suspicions were not entirely unfounded. And he came to understand this in an abandoned church north of Moscow, with Tarakanov next to him, when it's already too late...! He should have realized it Pripyat, that morning, with Valery beaming at him sleepily. He should have reached for him, held him against him, never let go. Or in Vienna, in the hotel after the talk, he should have grabbed Valery and offered to run away and never looked back at this ungrateful nation. But it's still monstrously wrong, isn't it. Criminal, even. Men aren't supposed to love like this. This kind of love is for women, for sweet little girls in the spring. Not for men. He glances at Tarakanov, terrified that this revelation might be written plainly on his face, but his colleague seems oblivious to his epiphany.

"It's disgraceful what they've done to him, Boris. I was ashamed to see him so ill, so alone. He deserved better than this."

"Is that why you wrote his name on this month's list?" Boris asks, forcing himself to continue this conversation despite the voice screaming inside his head, repeating relentlessly that he fell in love with a man.

"Yes. And to let Charkov know I'm not afraid of him." Something hardens in Tarakanov's gaze. "I didn't survive hell and lose thousands of men to be held on a leash by a clerk. I hear you've been meeting colleagues? Trying to fight for Legasov?"

"Maybe," Boris admits, now afraid of the implications of his quest. But he didn't know. He didn't know he was in love with Valery. He didn't know it made him look like a lovesick fool.

"You're approaching the problem from the wrong angle. You can't fight Charkov by gaining the support of the others. He's holding them all by their balls, with all that he knows about them. No, Boris." Tarakanov takes a hold of his right arm, squeezing it too tightly as if he were nervous himself. "If you're going to do this, you're going to have to go to the root of the problem. Charkov himself."

"What does that mean? He has me by the balls as well. I can't do anything against him."

"He's not infallible," Tarakanov insists.

"What, you have some dirt on him?"

"Plenty of dirt. He was despised by the army when he came to his post in the early 80s. Military men do not forget."

Tarakanov reaches in his pocket and extracts a small piece of paper that he hands Boris. It's an address in Sochi.

"Nikolai," Boris objects, and tries to return the paper.

"His name is Vladimir Kotov. A retired colonel. He will have all you need, and more." Tarakanov closes his hand over Boris's, trapping the paper there and refusing to take it back. "Don't delay. He's old and ill, he's missing one leg."

"This is too dangerous. I can't go against the head of the KGB."

"The KGB is not the only force in this nation."

He must be talking about GRU, the military intelligence branch that has never been on friendly terms with the KGB. Is Tarakanov...? Boris feels dizzy. This is still madness, too reckless, and now he carries a heavier secret, this despicable love that shouldn't be.

"I can't," he whispers.

"You have to. Fight for him, Boris. Fight for Valekseich. You're the only one who can."

 

* * *

  


How is it possible, he wonders, to have spent nearly a year next to someone, every day, every waking hour (and some sleeping hours as well), without realizing that he loved him? It's absurd, impossible. Boris turns and turns the memories in his head, over and over, and it feels as if he's lifting a veil he wasn't aware existed, letting him see clearly what he was too blind to notice before.

(One afternoon, Boris woke up with a start in their working room. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but some days the fatigue of the invisible poison was simply too taxing. He was covered with Valery's suit jacket to keep him warm. It smelled of cigarettes and army-issued shaving soap, but mostly of _him_. It was... nice. So nice that Boris entertained the thought of falling asleep again, as if they were in bed together. But there was still too much to be done. He folded Valery's jacket neatly, left it on the armchair, and went back to work.)

Did Valery know? He must have known. Did he think Boris didn't return his feelings, did he assume his affection would be unwelcome? Boris was too distant. He should have realized how he felt earlier. All this time wasted.

(Valery turned fifty in September. He didn't remember it, and Boris surprised him with a tart and a bottle of vodka - a tart he commissioned from Minsk in great secrecy. Made from preserves, of course, no fruits were good that summer. Valery's eyes lit up the moment he saw it. There wasn't much to celebrate those days, but Valery humoured him, and they drank together in one of the empty hotel rooms they assumed weren't bugged. Sitting on the floor, their backs to the bed. Boris doesn't remember what they talked about, but he does remember how Valery looked at him that evening, his gaze soft and unwearied, with the kind of affection two men should not feel - but Boris didn't know that then. He drank from that gaze, he revelled in it. Nothing existed in the world but Valery's smile. "Borya," Valery said before they returned to their rooms, "you're a good friend.")

A good friend. And much more than that. Valery was his only beacon in those dark, deadly waters. Boris understands now why Valery wrote poetry. There are not enough words to describe what Valery was to him.

(He mostly remembers that morning in bed, revisiting that moment dozens of times until he has memorized Valery's sleepy smile, his unfocused gaze, his tousled hair, the warmth of the bedcovers, his own steady heartbeat, the rustling of papers Valery forgot on the bed when he fell asleep the night before.)

 _You loved him_ , he tells himself, _you were_ in love _with him_ , and it's still just as baffling as when he first realized it. Boris picks up the phone seven times, ready to call Valery, Charkov be damned. But what to say? (I loved you. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I still love you.) Both their phones must be intervened. And this isn't... some sweet declaration with chocolates and flowers, like wooing a girl. This is the kind of thing men are sent to prison for. It's outlawed. Unthinkable.

No, it has to be in person.

He doesn't know how, or when, but Boris will see Valera. He will orchestrate a meeting, at a bus stop, in the line at a bakery, in the middle of a crowded street. He'll follow him until he learns his schedule. And he will see him.

"Granddaddy?" Petya calls, surprising him. It's too late at night for the boy to be awake and yet here he is, standing by his bedroom door.

"What are you doing here? Go back to bed."

"A man gave me a letter for you today. I forgot to give it to you."

"A man? What man?"

Petya shrugs.

"Did he have glasses?" Boris asks, stupidly, still full of hope.

Petya shakes his head no and hands him an envelope. Boris freezes. This is a government envelope. There are no seals on it, no departments, but he's been in the System too long not to recognize at once this kind of paper, light brown and prone to crumpling in the corners. There was a tall pile of these envelopes on Charkov's desk the last time Boris was in there. What the hell is this doing in the hands of his ten year old grandchild?

"Where did he give you this?"

"Outside of my school..."

There must be a murderous expression on his face, because Petya looks terrified of him. Boris should probably reassure the boy that he's done nothing wrong, but he's too on the edge to step into the role of a grandfather. He tears the envelope open. A single sheet slips out onto his desk. It's a page taken out from a yellowed book, a textbook like the kind they used to make when Boris was a boy. A chemistry textbook. The title reads: Atomic Properties of Boron. There's a drawing of the atom, a large B, and a 5. The 5 has been crossed out with a pen and corrected to a 1, hastily enough that the ink left a smudge on the page.

 _'Boron, number five. Bo-ris. Number one for me,'_ Valery said. Winter enters Boris's heart, freezing and relentless. He stares and stares at the paper on his desk for what feels like hours. He doesn't even notice when Petya runs back to bed.

Those pigs.

They really were taping everything.

...That clumsy, drunken kiss? Was it audible on tape?

Charkov knows he met with Tarakanov. He assumes they spoke of Valery. This is his reminder for Boris to stay away, or else... He fantasizes with picking up the phone at this late hour and telling Charkov that he will strangle him himself, with his bare hands, if he ever goes near his grandchildren again - KGB Deputy Chairman or not. But he knows he cannot do that.

Instead, he sits across from him the next day in the cabinet meeting. The other ministers are reading reports and talking quietly among themselves as they wait for Gorbachev to arrive.

"Comrade Charkov," Boris says, loud enough to be heard by the rest of the table, but keeping his tone calm not to draw attention. "My ten year old grandson received an anonymous letter addressed to me yesterday. I thought I should let you know."

Charkov's eyebrow twitches in surprise but he quickly composes himself. "What kind of letter?" he asks, laconically. "A threat?"

"A prank, most likely. A childish prank. I'm thinking it might be one of his schoolmates, it's juvenile enough to come from a child."

Boris can feel Tarakanov staring at him intensely across the table, but he doesn't break eye contact with Charkov. Others are looking at them too, perhaps sensing the tension.

"It's a good hypothesis, comrade Shcherbina. You are a famous, respected man. Sometimes children's admiration translates into pranks. This is hardly a matter for national concern. You should speak to the schoolmaster to get to the bottom of this."

"Yes, of course," Boris says, and flashes him a fake smile. "Thank you for the insight. I'll make sure that our prankster gets suitably punished for his impertinence."

Charkov smiles back, a little stiffly. Gorbachev enters the room and the meeting begins, but Boris makes a point to meet Charkov's gaze every so often, as if to say, _That's right, I'm watching you too._

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, because, well... you know. :(
> 
> Mind the tags, please! Major character death and Implied/Referenced Suicide in this chapter. I'm sorry.

* * *

 

 

Boris must go to Sochi to see this Kotov without arousing suspicion.

He visits his doctor to put in a request for a week at a sanatorium away from Moscow, to see if the cough will improve. The physician's eagerness to accommodate everything he asks for lets him know he's one of Charkov's creatures - Sochi? Of course! The best room available. The best treatments! No, of course Boris won't be expected to adhere to a strict schedule, no one will bother him during the day, the Party is eager for him to be comfortable and well-rested. The only point of contention is the date. The physician insists that Boris departs the week of April 25th, so aggressively that Boris feels compelled to refuse. His grandson will be at the Worker's Day parade this year, he explains, of course he must be in Moscow for that. The doctor agrees with a noticeable scowl, and writes him up for May the 2nd.

April 25th. They want him to be away on the 26th, evidently. What do they think Boris will do, publish a manifesto on the second anniversary of the disaster? Stand in a public square and give a speech about Valery?

(It's also the second anniversary of the day they met. Valery exasperated him the first time he saw him, with his thick glasses and his nervous hands. Those scientists, with their idealism and their head in the clouds, incapable of working in the real world! How wrong he'd been. Valery worked harder than anyone he ever met, to the point of exhaustion, and what Boris dismissed as idealism was simply the goodness of his heart. When Boris was too shocked for action, confronted with his sudden mortality, Valery wrote down everything he needed from him, everything that needed to be done, so that Boris only had to give orders. He _should_ give a speech in a square. He should be giving speeches in every square of the Soviet Union until Valery is acknowledged as a hero.)

He spends the 26th at work, like any other day, signing decrees, reading reports, and not thinking of Valery. He leaves the office at six: the weather has been turning nice this time of year, and there's still plenty of daylight out. He'll be just in time for dinner. Today of all days he feels grateful to have moved with his son and his grandchildren to the house, instead of staying in the quiet apartment that was assigned to him with his position. It was the first thing he did after flying back from Pripyat: reconnecting with his son before it was too late.

He's on the last flight of stairs when Tarakanov calls his name from the floor just above him. Something on his face makes Boris stop dead in his tracks. Nikolai joins him on the same step of the stairs, standing abnormally close to him.

"Have you heard?" he whispers, and when Boris shakes his head he adds, "Legasov. He was found dead this morning."

It feels like thunder strikes in the middle of the stairs, leaving Boris blind, deaf, and unsteady on his feet. Valery. Dead. Those two words should not go together in a sentence.

"Shot?" he has to ask, knowing too well how these things work.

"Suicide. A _real_ suicide. Boris? Borya, are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," Boris says, and continues his way down the rest of the steps.

Tarakanov joins him, grabbing him by the arm. He nearly presses his mouth to his ear to speak. Boris feels like shoving him away, until what he's saying actually registers in his brain.

"I won't let this be buried away. I'm contacting the press. I'm contacting all the scientists. Boris. He will not be forgotten."

Too late, Boris thinks, and pulls his arm away. They all abandoned him, and they were too late.

 

* * *

  


Boris does not get out of bed the next day. He hasn't missed a day of work in forty-three years. But Valery is dead, and Boris is still alive. It's difficult to care.

 

* * *

 

When the doctor is called to the house, Boris is lucid enough to sneeze convincingly (the cough is of course genuine - the fever, though, is a surprise).

"It's a simple cold, Comrade Deputy Chairman. I expect you'll be back on your feet in two days."

This is good, in a way: let it be known through official channels that Boris was too ill to be the one spreading the truth about Valery's death, if Tarakanov wasn't joking. He closes his eyes, wishing the doctor would leave quickly for him to return to his silent roaming inside a world of memories that are now lost to him forever.

"You should have listened to me, Comrade Deputy Chairman," says the doctor, as he puts the stethoscope away. "You should have left for Sochi on the 25th like I counselled."

"Hm," Boris non-answers.

"Your leave will do you a world of good. I'll see personally that you receive the best care."

"Can you write me up for two weeks?" Boris asks, his voice raspy. "I could use some more rest."

"But of course, comrade Deputy Chairman. I'll file in the paperwork today."

 

* * *

 

Tarakanov was not joking. The newspaper talks about Valery's death (though it does not mention it was a suicide), which in and of itself is shocking. How did he manage to get this past Charkov's censure? Legasov is described as having made significant contributions to the military management of the accident. There was a small funeral, well-attended by the scientific community. Boris would smile, if he had the heart to.

 

* * *

 

Of course he runs into Charkov the day he returns to the office. Of course.

"I was sorry to learn you were ill, dear Boris," he tells him obsequiously as they enter the cabinet together.

"A simple cold. Thank you for your concern."

"I hear you've requested a substantial leave of absence?"

"Yes, my physician thinks Sochi's weather will be a balm for my poor lungs."

"It's lovely this time of the year, yes. You'll be sorely missed, I hope you know that. We've not seen eye to eye at times these past months, but I do sincerely wish you well."

"Of course. Whatever reason for a disagreement between us no longer exists. Does it?"

"No, it does not," Charkov replies, with a hint of smugness.

Boris smiles at him, but he also thinks, _I will destroy you, you little imp, I will end you and make you sink so deeply no one will ever rescue you_.

 

* * *

 

The Worker's Day parade is endless, loud, unsuitably cheerful. Boris would rather be anywhere else. His patriotism runs very low these days, but he dutifully waits with his family until Petya marches past to wave at him. After that, he fights his way through the crowd, looking for a quieter spot - somewhere he won't be suffocated like the last sardine in a can.

And then, out of nowhere, Ulana Khomyuk is in front of him.

He doesn't recognize her at first: she had long, black hair before. Now, there are barely some whiffs of grey hair spilling out of the handkerchief she's tied around her hair. It looks inconspicuous, at least, as if she were any other worker attending the parade. But her gaze gives her away, hard, unrelenting, just as determined as before.

(Did she know, he wonders. Did she ever suspect anything? Back then, Boris had assumed Valery was in love with her. The notion annoyed him deeply: they were busy and there was no time for that, he'd tell himself whenever he saw them working long hours together, secretly longing to break them apart. He was simply jealous, like a lovesick schoolboy.)

"What are you doing here?" he asks, gruffly, and then recalls their last conversation. He was rude to her, wasn't he. He should apologize for that.

"The funeral," she says, struggling to stay stationary in the moving crowd.

Boris holds her arm not to lose her, and lets himself be carried in the same direction of the moving people. They can speak like this, hidden in plain view, staring straight ahead and not at each other.

"He left me some tapes," she says. "Full of _music_. You know he was a melomane, very respected among musicians. I'm sharing them with my colleagues, they all love them so far."

"Classical music?" Boris asks, to keep the conversation going.

" _Revolutionary_ music."

"Did he mail them to you?"

"No, we..." She takes a deep breath. "We, uh, kept a long correspondence this past year through a mutual friend. He directed me to the place where he kept all his music collection."

"How thoughtful of him to keep in touch with you," Boris says, bitterly: it's the childish jealousy rearing its ugly head back in full force. They corresponded! Why her? Why not Boris? Could they have set up a system? Should Boris have done more?

"He left this for you," she says, and at first he thinks she's trying to hold his hand in the crowd, but she's actually placing an object in it, something small and square and smooth to the touch.

A notebook.

Valery's notebook. The one with the poems. Boris finds it hard to breathe. He slides it in his pocket, his vision obscured by the tears.

"You were so loved," Ulana says, "so loved."

She unhands him and stops walking, letting herself be swallowed by the crowd before he can reach for her. He stares after her, their gazes locked together for as long as the throng allows.

Tarakanov did his part. Ulana is doing hers. Boris will do his: he'll avenge Valery, even if it's the last thing he ever does.

_('For God's sake, Boris. You were the one who mattered most.')_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading if you made it this far! I hope this ending is somewhat satisfactory - if you've ever been caught up in stupid office politics I hope it resonates with you.

* * *

 

 

Sochi is beautiful, but Boris has stopped caring about such things. The Black Sea, the tall mountains in the horizon, the sunset reflecting on the waves... he has no use for any of it. He does wish Valery could have seen this. He wishes he could have spent his last days here, happy, unconcerned. With him. If he could have him in front of him now... Boris would take him by the shoulders and shake him. 'Why did you kill yourself?' he'd shout at him. 'I was working on it. I was going to save you!' He can imagine Valery flashing him a sad smile, and then saying, 'You still can.' It's the only thing that makes Boris get out of bed in the morning and endure the empty pleasantries of the staff assigned to him. His Moscow doctor kept his promise: Boris does have the best room, the best food, everyone is polite, befitting a dying old man of his standing. No one follows him around town. Boris checks and triple-checks the first two days: no one. Charkov likely thinks he's too weak, too overcome with grief after Valery's death: harmless. A discarded enemy.

He couldn't be more wrong.

(Nights are difficult: Boris turns and turns in bed, unable to sleep. He reads Valery's poems in the notebook, whimsical, painfully lyrical, unbelievably so for a man of science. Underneath that nervous exterior Valery was pure steel in his core, unyielding, and yet... and yet in that core there was still wonder and beauty. Boris wishes he knew anything about chemistry to describe it more eloquently. When he finally falls asleep, the dreams haunt him, relentless. Most of the times they are nightmares, where Valery is taken from him, where Valery falls in the reactor, where Valery is alone and in pain and Boris cannot reach him. Sometimes, however, the dreams are sweet. He revisits that morning in bed in Pripyat: when Valery smiles at him, Boris leans closer and presses a kiss to his lips. He tells him he loves him. It never feels wrong. Valery is never surprised.)

Kotov lives in a cramped apartment in the center of the city - on the second floor, despite his missing leg. One of the many ironies of bureaucracy. He's a man of war, hardened by battles, covered in scars: the kind of man who would find a discharge due to injury a long death sentence. There are too many empty bottles of vodka in the apartment. Boris is careful not to show any pity in his face: he knows Kotov would take offense at it.

"Nikolai said you might come," Kotov says, gratefully accepting the cigarette Boris offers him.

"It seems we have a common friend," Boris says, pulling a chair to sit in front of him.

"You see this?" Kotov gestures at his stump. "That's all him. Afghanistan. 1984, in some cursed, dusty village. We were told they only had low grade weapons, but they had a full arsenal, courtesy of the CIA. But these things happen. Operations can go wrong." Kotov takes a long puff that makes Boris cough into his sleeve, discreetly: he doesn't want to interrupt him. "But that little weasel knew. He was sitting in Moscow with the information and never saw fit to inform the army."

"How do you know he knew?"

"Oh, we received his memo in headquarters, when it was too late. But there was a discrepancy in the date of creation and the date it was sent. He sat on it for two months. Didn't want to stir the pot with the CIA, no doubt. But eight hundred of our men died that day, and I lost my leg."

Boris shakes his head. Information like that should never be delayed in open warfare. But it's only the word of a bitter old soldier against arguably the most dangerous man of the Soviet Union.

"This memo. Any chance I could see it?"

"Oh, yes. Andrei kept a copy of it. After that day, Andrei kept copies of everything concerning Charkov."

"Where is this Andrei now?"

"Here in Sochi. What? This town is full of crippled old men. Don't tell me you didn't know."

Crippled old men with a grudge. Boris supposes he's one of them too now. Is Charkov blind and deaf, that he doesn't realize this place is boiling with underground hatred for him and the institution he represents? It's a rare oversight, to have so many disgruntled military men in the same town, fertile ground for GRU. Boris hands Kotov a pen and a piece of paper and watches him scribble the address in silence.

"Don't just go see Andrei. Ivanovich also has papers, about that Korean jet in 83. And Igor. I don't think Ilya is still alive, but best check on him too."

The list of names grows and grows, soon filling the entire piece of paper. Boris is speechless. All he can do to thank him is to hand him the package of cigarettes. He'll send him more tomorrow.

"What did he do to you?" Kotov asks, as he hands him the paper.

"He drove a man to his death," Boris says, dryly. "He was the best man I ever knew."

"Then make him pay. You'll have dozens of men cheering you on in this town alone. Let Charkov sleep in the dirty bed he's made."

 

* * *

 

Boris collects so many old military records that he must buy two large paper envelopes at the post office. The men are eager to share their stories, eager for revenge. Each incident taken on its own would be a mere anecdote of war, an unfortunate casualty. Nothing to worry about. But taken together, these twenty-three accounts do begin to paint a shadier profile for Charkov: an unreliable, calculating man, cavalier about the loss of thousands of men and millions of rubles of military equipment every time he withheld crucial intelligence for his own personal vanity. His worst sins were committed in Afghanistan, and Gorbachev has been desperately looking for a way to end this conflict that bleeds the treasury and deprives the nation of its workforce. He'll be very interested in these documents, indeed. 

Boris finishes gathering the dossier on day nine of his long stay, locks it in his suitcase, and allows himself to finally breathe in the fresh air of Sochi.

"You look so much better than when you arrived, Comrade Deputy Chairman," the nurse tells him, overly eager. "The warm weather is good for you."

She's a young girl, pretty looking. Boris wonders if she too was selected to be part of his staff, perhaps to remind him that he is supposed to like women. Three years ago, he might have fallen for it. Now he only thanks her curtly, entirely disinterested in anything about her.

On day twelve, he overhears a conversation at lunchtime in the large, spacious dining room of the facilities. Two young women are talking by the enormous windows that let in the summer light. From the way they dress, not too dissimilar from Ulana, Boris guesses they are at least technicians, something related to science.

"Did you hear about that scientist? The one from Chernobyl?"

"The one who died? Yes, what about him?"

"They're saying he killed himself."

Boris coughs into his napkin and takes a hasty sip of water.

"Killed himself! Why?"

"Something about the investigation of the accident, apparently. They wouldn't listen to his recommendations."

"Is that so? Was he in the Party?"

"That's the strangest part of the story. He was in the Party for many years, as was his father, and the rest of his family."

"And he killed himself over this? Something's not right."

They are thousands of kilometers away from Moscow, and this story has found its way here. Boris smiles into his napkin.

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere in the Cabinet is much changed when Boris returns to Moscow, a strange tension floating in the air. For starters, Tarakanov is gone. He fears the worst, for a moment, but the goodbye letter Nikolai left him doesn't imply anything alarming, and the rest of the ministers still speak fondly of him. He volunteered to monitor a minor insurrection in Kyrgyzstan with enthusiasm, and Gorbachev praised him openly as he agreed to send him. Boris sees through this hasty departure: he needed to put some distance between himself and the Legasov scandal.

Which, to his surprise, is on the first order of the day.

"Comrade Charkov," Gorbachev says, in his infamous exasperated tone, "explain to me why everyone in Moscow is speaking of Legasov. I thought we'd put this matter to rest. But now in every cafe, in every bus stop, people are speaking of this poor Chernobyl scientist who killed himself because of the government. Well? I am waiting. Explain."

"There are tapes," Charkov says, uncharacteristically agitated. "He left some tapes with a manifesto. It seems they are being circulated like wildfire among scientists."

"And why has your office done nothing to stop it?"

"I assure you, Comrade General Secretary, every effort is being made, but it is an unexpectedly large-scale operation."

Bless Ulana! If Boris had her in front of him, he'd place two big kisses on her cheeks. She must have made hundreds of copies. When that woman gets a mind to do something it's impossible to stop her. _Give me ten Ulanas_ , he thinks, _and I'll overthrow Reagan himself_. 

"It was in the New York Times today. The New York Times, Charkov! This information should have never left your office, let alone our borders."

"My apologies, Comrade General Secretary, we tried to contain the spread of information, but..."

"Try harder," Gorbachev says, cutting him off. "Suppress those tapes. Give people something else to talk about. We cannot afford these rumors now. Do I have to tell you how to do your job?"

"No, Comrade General Secretary. I will take all the necessary measures."

"Good. I hope this rare incompetence from you does not become a habit." 

Charkov looks stunned with this public dressing down. In fact, Boris can't recall ever seeing him this flustered since he was appointed to his position. Gone is his smug, self-satisfied little grin. It's perhaps a little childish, but when Charkov meets his gaze, he allows himself to smile.

 

* * *

 

Boris does not tarry, because the 'necessary measures' Charkov spoke of can't mean anything good for him, for Ulana, and for Tarakanov. He requests a private meeting with Gorbachev the next day, expecting to be assigned an appointment in the next three days, but to his surprise the General Secretary receives him at once.

"Boris," he tells him, shaking his hand firmly as he gestures for him to sit. "It's good to have you back. I'm beginning to think I'm surrounded by incompetents these days. You and Tarakanov are the only ones I can trust to do their jobs."

"Thank you. I am happy to be back as well."

"Your leave of absence was good?"

"Yes, Sochi was lovely. Good place to retire."

"Oh? Good to know. Lately I've been of a mind to send a few clowns into early retirement." 

Boris stares at him, surprised, and Gorbachev waves his hand.

"Never mind that. Forgive me, this Legasov scandal has me on the edge." Gorbachev frowns, then looks hesitant. "Oh. But he was your friend. Wasn't he?"

What to do? Admit it? Deny it? Boris doesn't have the heart to deny it. It would be ridiculous. Everyone knew they were friends.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Our common hardship gave way to a close camaraderie in Pripyat." Boris takes a deep breath, silently apologizing to Valery as he coughs. "But it doesn't mean I agree with his methods. I counselled caution to him many times, but in the end he did what he thought was right, like the stubborn man that he was."

"What he thought was right. Those accused tapes of his are a nuclear bomb on their own."

"I am aware, yes, that it's not the ideal way to approach this. But after all that I've seen, I do sincerely think he had good reason to question the RBMK design, and to recommend those corrections."

"But the commission determined it was entirely unnecessary." 

"A commission assembled and directed by Charkov, yes. But I was there. I saw what it did to people. Thousands of men risked their lives to contain this disaster. Good men. Young men. I hardly think the cost of replacing the control rods is more expensive that the lives we'd lose if another accident were to happen, or the renewed scorn we'd gain from the international community."

Gorbachev doesn't agree, but he doesn't object either. He's listening. He's receptive. Boris's chest tightens painfully with this flicker of hope.

"Forgive me to be so blunt, Mikhail Sergeyevich," he goes on, "but it seems to me Charkov was hardly objective in this Chernobyl investigation due to personal antipathies. And it wouldn't be the first time he carelessly condemns thousands of men to die, consequences be damned."

Gorbachev stares at him, evidently surprised. He leans closer. "Are you accusing Charkov of something?"

"I am respectfully requesting that you examine this folder and draw your own conclusions, Comrade General Secretary."

Gorbachev puts on his glasses and takes the folder from him. He leafs through the pages mostly in silence, but sometimes he lets out murmurs of surprise. When he reaches the end of the pile, wide-eyed, he starts from the beginning again, this time more carefully. Several minutes pass as he reads. Boris has all day. Boris has the rest of his life, if need be.

"This is quite an impressive dossier you've gathered," Gorbachev says, as he closes the folder. 

"I only hope it's useful for you, and, by extent, to our nation."

"It's extremely useful, yes. You understand, of course, that this information forces me to make substantial changes to the Cabinet."

"I understand," Boris says, evenly. "I'm sure your changes will be for the best."

"I need to think about this. Please remain available today, I might have more questions later."

"You know I have been loyal to you for years, you first and foremost," Boris says, and stands up to leave. "I still am."

"Boris," Gorbachev calls before he makes it to the door. "You and I have been in this game for a long time, you longer than I. You spoke of personal antipathies, earlier. Am I to understand this is what drove you to prepare this against Charkov?"

Boris turns to face him and steps closer to the desk. 

"I'm an old man, Mikhail Sergeyevich. I don't have much longer to live. I assure you I had no personal investment in this before the disaster happened. But I cannot sit by idly while a single man puts my family, all of our families, in danger because of his decisions. Remember Andropov? Head of the KGB for years, then leader of our nation? I shudder to think what Charkov would do in such a position."

Gorbachev pales visibly. Boris doesn't think Charkov's aspirations truly extend to the chair of General Secretary in the future, but the cautionary tale of another KGB man who rose to power seems to have given Gorbachev much to think of. Good: let him think. Not wanting to disturb his musings, Boris goes back to his office.

 _Now we wait_ , he tells himself, and grinds his teeth.

 

* * *

 

He mustn't be hasty, he scolds himself the next morning. It would be preposterous to ruin everything because he felt the need to be overconfident before all the cogs fall finally into place. And yet Boris can't help stopping by the Soyuzpechat on his way to work, to glance at the postal stamps catalog. Boris looks around him in all directions, but no one seems to be following him. Here in Moscow, however, he can never be sure. There's no one else buying stamps at this early hour, only the clerk who is still setting up shop. Boris doesn't sleep much these days.

"Anything in particular you are looking for?" the clerk asks, politely.

"Afghanistan," Boris replies, and his hands tremble a little when he is given the relevant catalog.

The stamps are inoffensive enough, colorful. Which one to pick? The clerk is babbling that if he just waits a few months, a commemorative stamp is going to be released for the Afghan Mir mission, it might be worth waiting for it. But Boris doesn't have a few months. He doesn't have time for this, period. He shouldn't be doing this. Nevertheless, he points at one in particular, exotic enough, he supposes. The clerk tells him he has chosen well, and to shut him up, Boris asks for an envelope and then for a postcard as well, generic looking. It reads 'Greetings from Afghanistan' in cyrillics, and what he can only guess is the same sentence in some arabic-looking script. It's perfect. 

After sealing it, Boris hides it in the inner pocket of his suit jacket and continues arguing with himself whether to go through with this until he reaches the Kremlin. It's still very early. It might just work. The internal mail room is usually understaffed at this hour, before the morning shift arrives, and they must be busy filing and sorting documents produced during the night to be distributed in the offices of the Deputies. His secretary Natalya Petrova usually handles all of his mail, but Boris has done it himself, once or twice, if he is pressed to see documents. 

He hesitates before stepping inside the room. He can see his pigeonhole from the door with two or three letters in it and, two rows and one column above from his, Charkov's, so full of mail it barely fits in the enclosure. He can hear the staff chattering in the back room with the door open, carelessly so. His hand twitches with the need to reprimand them for being inattentive, but he decides to roll with it. He mustn't cough. In three strides he has reached his pigeonhole, unheard. He grabs his mail. Under no circumstances must he cough. He can still forget this reckless idea. But he does it: he reaches inside his suit pocket, places the blank envelope in Charkov's pigeonhole on his way out, and makes a hasty retreat, still unheard, and unseen.

His secretary knocks discreetly on his open door around 11 o'clock that morning. He usually leaves this inner door open, so that they may communicate quicker if needed be in their own quarters.

"Boris Evdokimovich," she asks. They've worked together for many years: he can tell something is troubling Natalya. "Did you pick up the mail this morning?"

"Why do you ask?" he replies, trying to appear calm, but well aware that she too knows him well enough not to fall for it. He has to start coughing, naturally. A brilliant secret spy he makes.

"I just had the most horrid conversation with Tatiana Fedorova. You know, Comrade Charkov's secretary. She was demanding to know if I had picked up your internal mail myself today."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I did, of course. It's none of her business how we handle our mail. But I heard from Ekaterina that she's been asking everyone this same question. Apparently there's been some minor issue with Comrade Charkov's mail today."

"Natalya," Boris says, lowering his voice, and glancing behind her to make sure the main door to their offices is closed in the other room. "You know I picked it up today."

"Evidently. But I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing. I wouldn't give her a glass of water, if she asked. Do you know she treated me as if I were a young girl, recently hired? No manners whatsoever."

"She takes after her boss," Boris says, breathing more easily. "I can't say he's beloved in the Cabinet these past few days. But thank you for lying."

"I'd lie to Charkov himself for you," Natalya says with a huff, and disappears back into the anteroom where her desk is.

So Charkov is riled up about it enough to send his _secretary_ on an errand like this, in the open. It should worry him, but Boris only feels a vague thrill. It was still a reckless idea, he scolds himself. Now Charkov will be on his guard, possibly furious enough to spur into action, and Boris won't even have had the satisfaction of seeing his face when he found the blank envelope, when he tore it open and saw the blank postcard. Did he know at once what it was supposed to mean? Is he still thinking about it? Is he going through old documents, reassuring himself there are no copies of his multiple shortcomings? Boris smiles at the thought.

Later that day, Natalya peeks her head in, and when she sees he isn't busy, she tells him, "Charkov tried to fire Tatiana Fedorova. Ekaterina says they had a terrible row. No one knows what is happening in that office - they are always scowling about one thing or the other, as you know, but it seems they are a little surpassed over there these past few days."

"How peculiar," Boris says, raising both eyebrows. 

The phone rings on Natalya's desk and she goes back to pick it up. When she comes back, she is frowning. "The Comrade General Secretary requests your presence in his office immediately," she says.

At long last, Gorbachev must have reached a decision.

"Changes are coming," Boris tells her, as he stands to make his way there.

 

* * *

 

 

Boris has had a fair amount of triumphant moments in his life. The first he remembers is a race he won in primary school, defeating the boy who was usually fastest and earning a medal - he never thought he'd win, and he never won again, but the moment he crossed the line stayed with him for the rest of his life. Later, in the war, there were such moments again, when he rescued comrades, when he killed enemies. The most recent is when Masha was finally cleared, and their flag was raised at the top of the structure, red and beautiful in the wind. But none of these moments compares to the look on Charkov's face when he personally hands him the letter from Gorbachev.

"What is this?" Charkov asks, incredulous, as if it were a joke.

"The General Secretary wishes for you to step down from your position, effective immediately. As you can see," he adds, his smile too wide to be contained, "I am chagrined to be the bearer of bad news."

Charkov snatches the paper from him, reading the letter from top to bottom. His eyes bulge behind his thick glasses. He stands.

"This is impossible," he says, and though he sounds calm there's a nervous glimmer in his eyes. "It must be a simple mistake. I will speak with him at once."

"I'm afraid he's unavailable for you."

"Unavailable for me? Nonsense," Charkov says, and tries to make his way to the door.

"Unavailable for you!" Boris repeats, raising his voice and blocking his way. "It's over, Charkov."

"Over?" Charkov repeats, with a grimace that apparently is meant to be a smile. "You think _I_ can be over? With all that I know, with all that I manage? Please. Don't tell me your illness has affected your judgement as well."

"Ah, don't trouble yourself over my illness, I know it has preoccupied you too much of late. But never mind my judgement. Surely you're not a man to question the judgement of the General Secretary? I've just handed you his orders. Do you disregard them?"

Charkov grabs the paper from his desk again without breaking eye contact with Boris until he lowers his gaze to reread it.

"These are difficult times," Boris says, using a soothing voice as if speaking to a child. "Times of change. You know Comrade Gorbachev is committed to the perception of transparency in his Cabinet. For _some reason_ , it seems your presence is no longer advisable among us. You know how these things work. One day you hold all the power, you think yourself invincible, and the next day you have nothing at all."

Charkov stares at him, still incredulous, still trying to process what is happening. Boris schools his face into something more proper, but the smile he can't do away with.

"Now," he adds, "I suggest you start vacating your office and leave this building as fast as you can. Your replacement is to be sworn in at four this afternoon. I have two comrade soldiers outside this very door, ready to assist your departure."

"This was your doing, wasn't it?" Charkov says, fixating a murderous glare upon Boris. "Look at you, trying not to laugh. You probably think you've won."

"Forgive me, but this letter makes it perfectly clear who lost here, and it isn't me."

"I can still destroy you. The tapes, the pictures still exist. Don't think for a moment I will let this slide."

"Considering you just lost clearance to any documents belonging to the Soviet Nation, I think you will find it difficult to access whatever you think you have on me."

"I have my ways," Charkov says, venomously.

"Your ways?" Boris steps closer. "Even so, who would believe you? A disgraced civil servant, forced into retirement? Or me, an esteemed member of the Cabinet of Ministers?" Charkov closes his fists, and Boris eggs on, "Listen to me, Vitya..."

"Don't call me that!" Charkov shouts, finally losing his cool, and Boris just laughs.

"I will call you whatever I like, given your sudden irrelevance!" He steps closer, dropping his voice into a growl. "Listen to me. If I were you, I would make myself scarce and keep very quiet. Consider yourself fortunate there won't be a trial for you. Gorbachev was feeling particularly generous today."

"A trial! I've done nothing to merit a trial. I've served this Nation loyally for decades. To suggest otherwise is pure calumny."

"What do you know of loyalty? Loyalty to yourself, perhaps. I've served this nation too, and I am dying because of it, as did thousands of worthier men."

"Ah. We come to what this is about, at last. Your little professor's suicide."

"Oh, I think you know very well what this is about. Think of the hundreds of lives you've ruined along with that one. They weren't forgotten. It's amazing what people will do to avenge a fallen comrade."

Valery. Just the thought of him gives Boris newfound energy. He hasn't needed to cough once, so far. One step closer. Close enough to be uncomfortable, but Charkov doesn't flinch.

"It must be something, to torment weaker men who cannot fight back against you. You of all people must find it quite satisfying. But you see, the problem with that is that one day you may inadvertently torment a good man with friends willing and able to fight back." Boris raises an emphatic eyebrow. "Go home, Charkov. Leave this building and never return. Entertain yourself with whatever it is that idle men do in their spare time and remember all that you lost. You'll sit there every day, missed by no one, and contemplate your meaningless existence until you finally die of boredom. Pity I won't be there to see it."

"A pyrrhic victory, then," Charkov says with a snarl.

"But a victory anyway. And to answer your earlier question, YES. It _was_ me. This was all _me_. What was it you used to say when we were younger? 'Why worry about something that isn't going to happen?' Well, perhaps you should have worried, just this time. You should have worried about the dying old man, once he had _nothing_ left to lose."

Charkov grows very pale. Boris steps away from him and opens the door to gesture at the soldiers who are standing at attention.

"Please escort the comrade out of this building."

"That won't be necessary," Charkov protests.

" _Escort him_ , and get him out of my sight!"

Boris sinks down on a chair after they leave the office. His hands are trembling. He stays there for a few long minutes, his mind blank. 

Revenge, they say, is supposed to be sweet. In this case, it tastes rather bittersweet. 

 

* * *

 

(That night, in the dream, Valery says, 'I love you too.')

 

 


End file.
